


Probably Not X-Men

by Kitkatkimble



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Telepathy, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, First Meetings, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-11
Updated: 2014-09-11
Packaged: 2018-02-16 23:39:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2288897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitkatkimble/pseuds/Kitkatkimble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Grantaire hears a voice in his head and draws the logical conclusions.</p><p>Of course, what is logical and what is the truth are not always the same thing. Tiny Blond Man can attest to that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Probably Not X-Men

Grantaire hears voices in his head.

Specifically, one voice. It’s a serious tenor that pops up when he’s about to do something stupid – and sometimes even when he isn’t – to lecture him about this, that and the other. He’s always heard it, as far back as he can remember, and sure, he’s been called crazy a few times, but he’s learnt not to talk about it. He calls the voice Achilles, and after a while, starts to associate a personality with it.

Achilles isn’t always present. (Even the voices in his head have better things to do than hang around Grantaire all day.) Sometimes he’s there, loud and strong, and brimming with the conviction and passion that Grantaire himself lacks. Other times, he’s quiet, a mere whisper of thoughts at the edge of Grantaire’s consciousness. Most of the time he is silent.

When Grantaire moves to Paris, he starts hearing Achilles more often. He’s not sure if this is just a reaction to being in a city with so many more people – sure, Aix is large, but nothing compares to Paris – or if he’s going crazier.

He doesn’t talk about it to anyone, not even Eponine, who may not know him very well but seems like she could, which is more than he can say about most people.

_Do us a favour and stop with the cynicism, please._

Speak of the devil, Achilles is back again.

Grantaire stares up at the ceiling, his mattress hard against his back and an empty bottle of vodka next to him. He’s been getting better, really. It was mostly finished when he picked it up that evening; maybe three or four shots left in it.

“You know,” he says aloud, “you don’t have to hang around my thoughts. It would be absolutely okay if you just left whenever you got pissed rather than whinge about it to me.”

_Oh, honestly. I’m not just spouting some crackpot argument. It’s like you’re not even trying tonight._

That’s because Grantaire isn’t. He’s not in the mood to argue with a voice in his head over the semantics of the newest political shift. He doesn’t _care._

 _Yes, you do. You can’t lie to me, I_ know _you. You can try to act like you don’t, but we all know how well that works out._

Grantaire rolls over and buries his head in the pillow. The soft fabric does nothing to muffle the sound of his thoughts, or Achilles, but thankfully the latter decides to quiet down and let Grantaire get some sleep. Or maybe Achilles is going to sleep. Grantaire’s never asked.

_Very funny. Go away._

So he does.

                        -                       -                       -                       -                       -                       -

“No, I don’t want to come and meet your friends,” Grantaire says with an exasperated sigh to Jolllly, who looks a little let down but not otherwise perturbed.

“You’ll finally get to meet Musichetta,” he offers.

“I’ve met Musichetta.”

“You’ll get to meet her in her element,” Joly corrects himself. “You haven’t met Musichetta unless you’ve seen her rage against the kyriarchy. Kind of like Enjolras, in that respect, but Musichetta’s nicer.”

“Enjolras?”

“He runs the meetings.” Joly waves it off. “Anyway, you should come. Plus, Lesgles says that Courfeyrac actually owes him money for a change, so drinks are on him.”

“You have my attention.”

He’s lying, because Joly definitively does not have his attention. His attention is on the name Enjolras. It feels familiar, in a way that he can’t quite understand. He’d know if he’d heard it before, but he hasn’t, and there’s no explanation for the strange feeling of rightness that comes with it.

He turns the syllables over in his mind. Achilles is oddly silent.

“Oi, R, you in there?”

There’s a hand waving in his face. Oh, look, it’s Joly. What a surprise. He says as much.

“You’re ridiculous,” he says fondly, before standing and offering a hand. “Come on, the meetings in half an hour and we should get there early. You aren’t doing anything today?”

“No, I have a lot of very important work to get done for all of the very important classes I’m taking,” Grantaire deadpans, and Joly laughs, pulling him up easily.

“Just make sure it gets done, yeah? I know how you and Lesgles are. One day you’re going to get alcohol poisoning and then I’ll be all alone, fretting my nights away. Musichetta won’t drink with us, you know, says we go too fast for her to keep up.” He’s wearing that silly little love-struck smile that he always seems to get when he talks about the fair lady from Madrid. “I don’t know what she’s talking about, I’ve seen her put away half a bottle of tequila before. I don’t know where she puts it.”

Grantaire pats his stomach. “It’s amazing what these babies can process.”

Joly rolls his eyes and smiles wider. “Come on, we’ve got places to be, and Courf will kill us if we’re late.”

Paris is bustling on Friday nights, people wandering around everywhere. It’s a lovely evening, clear skies and the faintest whispers of cloud on the horizon, and Grantaire feels around in his backpack for his little portable watercolour set. It’s a tiny thing, barely six colours if you count white, and cold to the touch. Good, he’s got it. If Joly’s friends turn out to be boring – which there is a chance of, because Joly is eclectic with his friends – then he has his bases covered. And he really would like to capture this image, because it’s a lovely one.

Achilles pipes up again. _Have you got everything prepared?_

‘It’s not due for ages, chill,’ he thinks, idly remembering the easel still standing in his living room. He’d planned on finishing the painting tonight, but he can always do it tomorrow morning.

_It’s important that it’s done now, though._

It isn’t due until Friday. Grantaire has time.

 _We really don’t,_ Achilles sounds disapproving, but sighs and relents anyway. It’s not like he has a choice in the matter. Grantaire isn’t going to do the project any earlier.

Okay, maybe a little earlier. It’s going to be finished before Friday, which is something.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Joly asks, nudging him in the side. “We’re almost there.”

Grantaire looks up, coming back to himself. They’re strolling down a street lined with aspens, the daylight still lingering through the summer evening. There is a café ahead, and it’s one Grantaire’s been in once or twice, but not more. He doesn’t often come down to this area, despite all of Joly’s enthusiasm for it.

Joly opens the door for them, wandering in with practiced ease. Grantaire knows he comes here often, and it’s evident in the way that he automatically smiles at the waiter, dodges a creaky floorboard, and makes his way to what Grantaire assumes is his normal table.

Lesgles is already there. Lesgles is always there early, because for all his bad luck, he’s learnt to leave a little time on the side of any trip he makes to prepare for the flat tire/old lady crossing the street/Parisian traffic.  Grantaire envies him a little.

They settle into each others company easily, glasses full and grins wide.

“It’s about time,” Joly remarks, checking his watch. “They’ll be here any – ”

Just as he’s speaking, the door opens again, and in steps a smiling Hispanic boy who makes Grantaire immediately think of sprites and imps. Something about the eyes, maybe. He’s laughing and dragging a tall black woman, who doesn’t look at all distracted from the conversation she is holding with the tiny blond man who follows them through and shuts the door.

“Give up, Combeferre,” says Laughing Boy. “He’s never going to admit to it.”

Combeferre raises an eyebrow and slides past him, making her way to where Grantaire, Joly, and Lesgles are sitting. “I don’t need him to admit it. I know his passcode for his phone.”

Tiny Blond Man immediately starts to rummage through his pockets, and visibly sighs in relief when he finds the phone in question.

Laughing Boy drops into the seat opposite Grantaire and grins at him. Grantaire grins back. He looks like mischief, and Grantaire’s always up for some fun. “Courfeyrac,” he says.

“Bless you.”

“No, that’s my name.” The grin widens. “Nice to meet you. You must be the friend that Jolllly mentioned.”

“R,” he introduces. If Courfeyrac uses Joly’s moniker, he can use Grantaire’s.

Combeferre and Tiny Blond Man finish piling their things on the table next to Grantaire’s, and come over to hover behind Courfeyrac.

“I’m Combeferre, welcome to Les Amis,” Combeferre says, introduction unnecessary but appreciated nonetheless. “I hope you stay.”

“I won’t,” he says cheerfully. “I’m just here for the free beer.”

“Then we hope to convince you otherwise,” she says, eyes flicking to Tiny Blond Man imperceptibly. Grantaire glances over as well, and takes note with some amusement that he looks as though someone just stabbed his mother in front of him.

“Challenge accepted,” Grantaire shoots back, before settling into the rhythm of Joly and Lesgles’ conversation once more.

Achilles has gone deadly silent. Grantaire idly considers dredging him up, but decides against it.

When he looks up again, Tiny Blond Man isn’t there, although Combeferre and Courfeyrac are sitting discussing something while arranging folders and folders of paper. Grantaire’s actually impressed. The amount of paper here nearly rivals the amount scattered around his apartment.

Tiny Blond Man – who really is very tiny and very blond – reappears shortly, but to Grantaire’s surprise, the first thing he does is head straight towards him.

“Hi,” he says, setting his beer down.

“You’re in my head,” Tiny Blond Man says bluntly, and holy shit, it’s like being whacked around the head with a baseball bat. He knows that voice. He’s heard that voice every day for years.

“Achilles?” he wheezes.

Tiny Blond Man/Achilles smiles a tight-lipped smile. “Enjolras, actually. Let’s talk.”

                        -                       -                       -                       -                       -                       -

Enjolras leads him back out of the café, face grim and eyes trained ahead. Grantaire stumbles after him, still trying to make sense of the fact that the voice in his head is actually _not_ a voice in his head. It’s someone else. A very attractive someone else. This is really weird.

Enjolras stops and whirls around, which would be a lot more intimidating if he weren’t so short. “How are you doing this?”

“I don’t know!” Grantaire throws up his hands and slouches a little, unconsciously making himself smaller. “I thought I was, I don’t know, schizophrenic or something. I didn’t think you were real.”

The haze over his mind clears a little, and he can feel a tentative prod at the edges of his thoughts. Then;

_You can hear this?_

Grantaire opens his mouth to reply, but the answer formulates in his brain faster, and Enjolras looks pale.

 _Is this telepathy?_ Grantaire tries, and judging by the way that Enjolras blinks, it works.

“But it doesn’t make sense,” Enjolras says.

“It’s impossible,” he agrees. “It’s… well, it’s happening. Maybe we’re X-Men.”

They, through some unspoken agreement – or a telepathic command, Grantaire doesn’t even know anymore – both drop down to sit on the curb. Grantaire goes to stretch out his legs, but before he even moves, Enjolras is there blocking him. Enjolras looks a little surprised at this himself, but doesn’t retract his hand.

“So you’ve been the voice in my head since I was a kid,” Grantaire says. “Do you know how unreal this is?”

Enjolras laughs. “Trust me, I know. Do you know how weird it is, listening to you speak out loud? This isn’t possible. There are stories written about this kind of thing.”

“It’s like a bad YA romance plot,” Grantaire agrees, then hastily says, “not that I think this is romantic or anything. It’s just really weird.”

They stare at the ground for a long while.

“You going to join us?” Enjolras asks, eventually, rising to stand and offer Grantaire a hand up. Grantaire takes it, and is pleasantly surprised by the strength of the tug.

“I don’t know. Are you speaking?”

“Yeah. I’m one of the leaders, actually.”

Grantaire’s lips twitch. “That doesn’t surprise me at all. I’ve heard your arguments in my head since I was fifteen.”

Enjolras has a funny look in his eyes that fascinates and puts Grantaire on edge in equal measure. “And I’ve heard your counter-arguments for just as long. But I’d like to hear them in person.”

Grantaire snorts, thoughts of cynicism and existentialism and the pointlessness of everything filling his mind.

Enjolras winces, ever so slightly, but he doesn’t retract his offer. If anything, he looks even more determined.

“Give me a chance to convince you.”

Grantaire’s heard that before, but it sounds different coming from a living, breathing person. He could never be convinced by a voice in his head. Maybe he can be convinced by someone real.

“Sure,” he says. “Why not.”

 


End file.
